


the whimsical shopkeeper and the amoral regular

by achillesplaysthelyre



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bookstores, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Secret Relationship, some minor temptation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 16:52:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19445626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achillesplaysthelyre/pseuds/achillesplaysthelyre
Summary: Hardly anyone enters Aziraphale's bookshop. He makes sure of that. But on a dark and stormy night, almost a year after the supposed Armageddon, a girl stumbles inside.A view of Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship from an outside perspective.





	the whimsical shopkeeper and the amoral regular

**Author's Note:**

> this was purely self-indulgent lmaoo. enjoy.

Mum does not like the old corner bookshop in Soho. In fact, she has made it quite clear that I’m not to step foot inside. The owner is a man with a headful of curly white hair, although he doesn’t look much older than fifty. According to Mum—despite his jolly cheeks and round belly— he’s “despicable, rude and a complete arsehole.” She’d tried to buy a book from him once, had been quite insistent that he let her purchase it, and he had unceremoniously shoved her out the front door. 

I, on the other hand, love the bookshop. The owner, whose name I discovered is Aziraphale, is the exact opposite as my mum had described him. I first stumbled into his shop two years ago during an unusually brutal storm. I, like most teenagers, hadn’t listened to my mum’s warnings to bring an umbrella and was paying dearly for it. In any other situation I would have called a cab, but my phone had died and besides, I had spent all my money on dinner. All I could do was keep my head down and avoid as many puddles as possible. But my usually white trainers had already been covered in muck and my socks squelched whenever I took a step. 

In all the grey of London—the pavement, the rain, the people, the buildings—there stood a bookshop, nestled in a corner and quite hidden. I don’t think I would have noticed it if it weren’t for the warmth that radiated from it on that dark and stormy night. This particular bookshop felt different than all the other buildings in Soho. At the time, I was still young and naive, clueless to reality and ignorant to the truth. And so I did not understand what the feeling really was. 

Now, two years later, when I recall the events that led me here, to my future and present, I can identify that feeling as _love_. It seems impossible for a building to have the ability to emit this or any emotion at all. Buildings aren’t sentient, but it seems that the ethereal and occult beings that resided there—though I had no idea that that was what they were, at the time—made it possible.

So I stood there, gazing at the sign and weighing my options. The door was closed, the shades drawn, and this should have dissuaded me from approaching. But there was yellow light peeking out from behind the windows, casting a warm glow on the grey pavement by my feet, and I didn’t fancy the idea of staying out in the rain much longer. I told myself, You’ll just be asking to borrow their mobile. And so I knocked. 

Almost immediately, a voice called out from inside. “I’m afraid we’re closed!”

Despite the firm yet kind rejection, I knocked again. I was desperate. The owner was clearly home. It seemed like a reasonable idea. The owner didn’t respond.

Well, I thought, I guess that’s that. “Fucking bookshop,” I cursed. I slammed the toe of my trainer into the wall and ignored the pain that shot up my leg. “Fucking owner.”

Then Aziraphale opened the door and a pleasant gust of air washed over me. I took a step forward, forgetting my previous resentment towards him and his establishment, hungry for warmth. His cream-coloured coat and grey waistcoat fit him snuggly. A pair of minuscule circular spectacles were perched on the tip of his nose. The small downturn of his lips and the iciness of his blue eyes didn’t stop me from blurting out, “May I borrow your mobile?” 

The ice melted and his mouth dropped to form a little O. “Mine’s dead,” I clarified. I hugged myself tighter and blinked the rain out of my eyes. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have a mobile,” he told me. A pit formed in the back of my throat and a pressure formed behind my eyes. 

“A telephone, maybe? I just need to call my mum for a lift. I live a ways off.” I rubbed at the goosebumps on my arms and looked at the ground. I didn’t want him to see the tears that were threatening to spill over. 

Aziraphale muttered something and then cleared his throat. “I suppose.” He opened the door further and beckoned me inside. “Hurry, hurry. We don’t want the cold air getting in.” I remember a few tears did escape then. 

I rushed past the open door and nearly collapsed. Aziraphale had disappeared and I was left to cower at the entrance. There were tables filled with ancient books, the kind with deckled edges and bound in leather. I shook my hands dry and approached the nearest shelf. The spines were in excellent condition; there wasn’t a single crack on any of them. I traced the gold imprints with my fingers. I recognized copies of Oscar Wilde, Emily Dickinson, W.H. Auden, and Jane Austen. 

“I’ll have to warn you, young lady, that if you attempt to buy a book, I will have to dissuade you,” Aziraphale said. I turned and spotted him by a shelf, holding a fluffy white towel and his jaw clenched. 

“I don’t read much. Besides, it’s a bookshop,” I said. “Why keep a bookshop and not sell any books?” 

“I’m quite fond of them, you see. I would hate to be parted from any.” Aziraphale handed me the towel and walked away. I attempted to dry my hair and followed him. 

“My mum tried to buy a book from you once. She said you were an arse,” I told him. We stopped at a table with an antique telephone resting on a small pile of books. 

“I hope you come to your own conclusions about me,” Aziraphale said with a soft, tinkling laugh. “Ring your mum, now.” 

He left again, presumably to give me some privacy. I glared at the telephone for a second before picking it up. It was one of those with dials and I struggled to work out how to use it. I hadn’t seen one of these, much less used one, since my gran died when I was little. I clutched the phone to my ear and muttered, “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” It was only 8 o’clock, much too early for my mum to be asleep, and the weather was terrible. She wouldn’t have gone out. But she didn’t pick up. I dialed once more and it reached voicemail again. “Hi, you’ve reached Cristina Davies. I’m currently busy and can’t pick up the phone. Please call back later,” her prerecorded voice said through the line. 

“No luck?” Aziraphale materialized out of thin air, again. I dropped the telephone.

“Er, no. Thank you, anyway, Mr…” At the time, I hadn’t known his name. 

“Aziraphale,” he said. I remember thinking it was an odd name. But it suited him. An odd name for an odd man. 

“I best get going now, Aziraphale. Thank you, again.” I extended my hand, expecting him to shake it. He simply stared at it. 

“Nonsense. Come, have a cuppa to warm up and we’ll give you a ride. I won’t let you walk home in this weather.” Aziraphale smiled brightly at me. I hesitated. He was a stranger after all. My phone was dead and my mum didn’t know where I was. If I were killed, no one would be the wiser. Aziraphale noticed my doubtfulness. 

“I assure you, I only want to help,” he said. His words were slow and sweet, soothing and coated in honey. I was quickly reassured and so I trailed after him. We passed shelves crammed with books and eventually stopped at a little nook tucked into the back of the shop. It was sheltered by another shelf, this one a little emptier than the others, and a low couch leaned against it. Sat on it was another man. Sat isn’t the right word for it, actually. Crowley  _ lounges  _ with the air of someone who cannot be bothered by anything at all. 

I almost ran away then and there, but Aziraphale placed a small hand on my shoulder and gestured for me to sit at the desk. 

“Picked up another street urchin, did you, angel? Last time it was that wretched witch from Tadfield. Who is it this time?” the man drawled. His eyes were covered by a pair of shades. They looked like goggles an evil scientist would wear. And dear Lord, his  _ cheekbones _ . 

“Be nice, Crowley. She’s staying for tea and we’ll give her a lift home afterwards,” Aziraphale said. I thought he meant to sound reprimanding, but it came out rather soft. 

“Nice? Phooey!” Crowley waved his hand and scoffed. I took a seat and folded my hands neatly in my lap. Aziraphale went to fetch the tea and I was left alone with Crowley. Another odd name. Although he didn’t look as odd as Aziraphale. Crowley looked proper punk with his black skinnies, snakeskin boots, and jacket that exposed a bit of chest. I even caught a glimpse of a tattoo by his ear. 

“Tell me, girl, what are you exactly?” he asked me. The words caught in my throat. 

“Just a regular girl. In year 11,” I stammered. I didn’t know why I was so nervous. Perhaps it was the way Crowley appraised me. Although I couldn’t see his eyes, I could feel their gaze, sharp and intense, crawling over me. His shoulders were tensed despite the casual and loose way he sat. Thankfully, Aziraphale appeared once again. He was balancing a pot of tea and a couple of cups in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. 

“Stop harassing the poor girl, Crowley.” 

Crowley sputtered. “I’ve barely said five words to the thing, angel.” 

“The  _ thing  _ has a name,” Aziraphale said. He paused and turned a brilliant shade of red. “Forgive me, young lady, but I have neglected to get your name.” Crowley guffawed. 

“Leonor,” I said. My mum had been very close with her  _ abuela _ and named me after her. I always despised her for it. Why couldn’t I have been named Margaret after my dad’s gran? “I prefer Leo.” 

Aziraphale smiled and poured me a cuppa. “How do you take your tea? It’s chamomile.” 

“Plain is fine,” I said. He nodded and handed me the cup. I cradled the hot cup carefully. My hands slowly started to thaw and after I took a small sip, I felt the warmth of it soothe the ache in my bones. He poured another and gave it to Crowley who looked at it distastefully. Regardless, he took a long drink. His tongue seemed fine. 

“The girl takes her tea plain. No milk, no sugar, no honey, nothing! And you call  _ me  _ bad. That’s truly demonic, if you ask me,” Crowley said. 

“No one asked,” Aziraphale said. He gracefully took a sip from his own cup. I noticed a ring on the pinky of his plump and manicured hand. 

“Regardless. I don’t want to hear any complaints from you when I’ve done something inherently bad.  _ I  _ don’t take my tea plain.” 

“I don’t think you’re inherently bad,” Azirphale said fondly. He was looking down at the platter of biscuits and fidgeting with the ring on his finger. “Quite the opposite, really. You’re much better than me.” 

I took a sip of my plain tea and prayed for the moment to end. I just wanted to go home and take a nice, long bath. Maybe I’d pop on a face mask and use a bath bomb. And after my shoddy home spa, I’d burrow under my blankets and watch a show. As I daydreamed about my bath bombs, Aziraphale and Crowley continued to banter, although I could tell they meant nothing by it. In fact, I think they were flirting, albeit very weirdly. 

Aziraphale ate most of the biscuits. They were covered in soft yellow frosting and fell apart in my mouth. I managed to snag a few and Crowley looked disinterested. He was still lounging on the couch, his long legs spread out and arm thrown over the back. He and Aziraphale were polar opposites, it seemed. Aziraphale was light and Crowley, with his fiery red hair, like the darkness lurking in alleyways. He was tall and lithe, all limbs and slithery, while Aziraphale was soft from too many sweets and honest. Looking back, I know that Aziraphale is not, in fact, honest at all. He lies quite frequently. Crowley simply slithers out of everything. 

As soon as we finished the tea, Aziraphale clapped his hands together. “Well, we ought to take Leo home now. Come on, Crowley.” 

“I’d rather not. I’m not your chauffeur, angel. I’m starting to think you only want to be friends for the free rides,” he said. He stood up anyway and brushed invisible dust off his trousers. 

“You can’t drive?” I asked Aziraphale. I thought all adults could drive

“No, he can’t. I have to take him everywhere. Imagine that! In this day and age. It’s the twenty first century, angel. Get your license,” Crowley groaned. He moved towards the front door. I watched him, trying to figure him out. He was full of contradictions. 

“Hurry up, Leo,” Aziraphale said. “The sooner we get you home the better.” 

I folded the towel neatly and left it on the couch, next to one of the silk throw pillows. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and we left to catch up with Crowley. I didn’t notice when the towel vanished into thin air. Crowley was waiting for us by the door, one hand tucked in his jean’s pocket and the other holding a large black umbrella. He shoved it into my hands. “Ready to go?” 

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale replied. He opened the door and they walked out into the rain. Crowley strolled over to a large car parked haphazardly across the street. After shaking the umbrella and closing it, I clambered into the backseat. 

The car was old, to say the least. I know now that it’s a 1926 Bentley. The seats were made of smooth leather and the doors opened funny. But Crowley was already inserting a CD. “How do you like The Velvet Underground, regular girl?” he asked. 

“Don’t much care for them,” I replied. Aziraphale giggled and said something indecipherable. 

“I swear to Heaven—” Crowley seemed to choke on his words before continuing “—and Hell, I’ll never speak to you again if you call it ‘bebop’ one more time.” He was shaking and I thought he was properly mad at Aziraphale. Instead, he let out a barking laugh and pressed play. 

“Of course you won’t, my dear. Now, Leo, where do you live?” He looked at me through the rearview mirror. 

“Mayfair, on Grafton street,” I said. Crowley nodded and sped off. Aziraphale clutched the grab handle with white knuckles and merely winced as Crowley drove. As Crowley lurched around corners and went up to 90 mph in the rain, I was thrown around the backseat. He and Aziraphale were talking about a boy named Adam and his birthday in a week. Whenever he took his hands off the wheel to gesture wildly or looked away from the road to gaze at Aziraphale, the biscuits I ate earlier threatened to come up. Was he drunk? I wondered. No, I hadn’t seen him drink anything except a cuppa. 

The drive was short, thank God, and Crowley had pulled over onto Grafton before the song was even over. Aziraphale turned around and smiled cheekily. “It was lovely meeting you, Leo. Get home safe.” 

“Thank you for the cuppa,” I said. Then I faced Crowley. “Thanks for the lift.” 

“I would say anytime, but that wouldn’t be true.” Crowley scrunched his nose in disgust and waved me off. “Keep the umbrella, Aziraphale would maim me if I kept it.” 

I clambered out of the car and watched from under the safety of Crowley’s umbrella as the Bentley drove out of sight. I stood there for a second longer, stuck in a reverie about what had just happened. I remembered when Aziraphale had said, “I hope you come to your own conclusions about me.” I thought him kind enough and Crowley, although wily and unpredictable, I deemed kind as well. 

And so I made my way home, holding the umbrella in a deathly grip, still a little warm from the tea. When I toed off my soggy trainers and socks by the shoe rack, I found my mum fast asleep on the sofa. She was surrounded by a pile of paperwork and her laptop was dangerously close to falling off her lap. I moved it to the coffee table and shook her awake. She didn’t see the strange umbrella by the door and lectured me for the next ten minutes about being prepared for the next time I went out. I didn’t mention the bookshop or Aziraphale and Crowley. 

The next day was Monday and I resolved to return the umbrella. I didn’t need it anyway; I had my own and it was a lovely shade of pink. The walk from my Mayfair flat to Soho wasn’t so terrible when it wasn’t raining. Most of the puddles had dried by then and the streets were once again bustling with people. No one thought it odd that I was carrying an umbrella. 

When I got to the bookshop, I noticed Crowley’s ancient car parked—haphazardly, again—by the front door. I glanced at the open sign before approaching the door. I opened it slowly and stepped inside. The pleasant atmosphere and musky smell of books and tea instantly loosened the tension in my shoulders. I closed my eyes and smiled for a second. 

“Aziraphale,” I called out, opening my eyes and venturing deeper into the shop. 

There was a crashing noise from the back room. Crowley popped his head out and frowned. His shades were slightly askew on his nose. 

“Angel, it’s the regular girl from last night!” he shouted. I winced at the shrillness of it. It had seemed like he was hissing. 

“Oh! What a pleasant surprise,” Aziraphale said. He emerged from the room and flashed me a brilliant little smile. His cheeks were flushed and I raised a brow. He staggered a little towards me. He was pissed, or well on his way to it. 

“Drinking so early, Aziraphale?” I laughed when he grimaced. 

“I gave into temptation,” he sighed. Then Crowley sauntered in. A bottle of wine hung from his long fingers. The other arm draped itself across Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“My fault, my fault. Tempting you is too much fun, angel. Forgive me,” he slurred. 

“You can’t keep a shop while pissed,” I said. 

“Hallo, Leo,” Crowley said. “Are you a Leo?” 

“A Libra, actually.” 

“The Earth is a Libra, y’know. Sunday the 21st of October. 9:13 am,” he said and grinned impishly. Aziraphale only sighed again, sounding as exasperated as I felt.

“Well, I’ve come to return your umbrella. And you probably shouldn’t drink on the job,” I told them. I placed the umbrella against a shelf since Crowley’s hands were full. 

“No one comes in here, dear. I make sure of that!” Aziraphale beamed. I wondered how he could possibly keep potential customers away and still have the shop open and running. Of course I know the reason now. 

Crowley smiled. “Of course you do, angel. You’re very good at scaring people away. Except for the girl, it seems.” Aziraphale hummed. 

“Well, I’ll see you around sometime, yeah?” I asked. I liked the shop. I liked the smell of ink and aging paper. I liked the warm glow of the numerous lamps and the sunshine that filtered through the open windows. I liked the nook where Crowley would throw himself onto the sofa like a hedonistic Victorian lord. I liked Aziraphale’s sparkling smiles and his passion for his books. I liked it there and decided that I would come back, no matter what they said. 

“I suppose we can’t stop you,” Crowley drawled sarcastically. 

“So long as you don’t buy anything,” Aziraphale added. I nodded and made my way to the door. What an odd duo, I thought; the whimsical shopkeeper and the amoral regular. For that’s what I believed they were at the time. Just a silly man and a sulking regular. How wrong I was. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably going to be two chapters. i was thinking about the next one will be in either crowley or aziraphale's point of view, but i kinda like leo. let me know what u think & thanks sm for reading :)


End file.
